The Tragedy of a Single Death: Making Sense of the Statistics of Atrocity

I asked a friend of mine, Chris Barr, to guest blog here at History and Interpretation. Chris worked as a high school history teacher for several years before working as a park ranger at Andersonville National Historic Site. 

Responding to Winston Churchill’s concerns over the loss of life in World War II, Joseph Stalin reportedly said, “When one man dies it is a tragedy.  When thousands die, it's statistics.”  Whether or not this exchange happened or not is questionable, but it reveals a lot about how our society deals with atrocities.  We see this all time today – the nation goes into an uproar over the tragic deaths of individuals like Caylee Anthony or Trayvon Martin, while recent reports that the death toll in Syria has exceeded 90,000 barely registers as a blip on our radar.  Single deaths we can make an emotion connection with.  Hundreds or thousands of deaths we have trouble understanding. 

If the self-styled man of steel reveals a lot about how we see the world around us, it also shapes our interpretation of historical atrocities.  Perhaps nowhere in our nation’s collective memory is this more evident than the tragedy of Andersonville.  Open for fourteen months at the end of the Civil War, around 45,000 Union prisoners of war were held in an open stockade in rural Georgia with inadequate food, shelter, clean water, and medical care.  In August of 1864 the population peaked around 32,000. Just fewer than 13,000 of these men died in captivity.  

Those are big numbers - the “statistics” that Stalin talked about.  We can’t comprehend numbers that large.  So it’s easy to gloss them over.  Even in the cemetery, where there are 13,000 headstones of the prisoners who died, we catch a fleeting glimpse of the size of this tragedy, but after just a few moments the individual headstones blend into a single mass of white stone. Stretching into the horizon.  

Just a portion of the  Civil War graves at Andersonville

So the question remains – how do we interpret this statistic we can’t comprehend?  Turning to Stalin, the unlikely Civil War prison historical interpreter,  “When one man dies it is a tragedy…” In order to grasp the tragedy of Andersonville, we focus on the individuals who suffered and died there.  By telling the story of one man’s death, we can better tell the tragedy of Andersonville.

But there is a challenge to this “one death is a tragedy” motif: Whose death is a tragedy?  Are all deaths tragedies?  Are all deaths equal?  Who are the victims?  For many, Captain Henry Wirz is the tragic victim of Andersonville because he is easily the “one death” that Stalin talked about. The tragedy of Henry Wirz became cause célèbre for the Lost Cause.  Writers like James Madison Page, Randolph Stephenson, and Mildred Rutherford told the story of Andersonville as the tragic martyrdom of HenryWirz.  The United Daughters of the Confederacy erected a monument to Wirz in the nearby town of Andersonville.  Every November, the Alexander H. Stephens Camp of theSons of Confederate Veterans holds a memorial service for Wirz on the anniversary of his death.  Wirz’s death may have been a tragedy as a victim of a military tribunal system that remains controversial even in our own time.   But the people who see Wirz as the tragic victim oftenoverlook that statistic – 12,920 deaths.  The tragedy of Andersonville is not the blame.  The tragedy is that in the summer of 1865, there were 12,920 empty chairs at dinner tables across the nation.  

Henry Wirtz

12,920 American soldiers of every race, religion, and national origin imaginable died at Andersonville in service to their country.  We must take that sea of headstones and share the tragedy of each one with the vigor and passion that Wirz’s story has been told.  This is our mission.  We tell the story of Edwin Niver and the fifty years of grief his sister went through.  We tell the story of Samuel Melvin and how he just wanted to go home.  We tell the story of Osceola Pochontas and how he sacrificed himself to preserve a nation that he lived in less than a year. We tell the story of John Jameson and how his friends and family arranged to have his friend exhumed and returned for burial in Hartford, CT.  We tell the story of James Gooding, who wrote to President Lincoln demanding equality of treatment and pay for black soldiers.  We have thousands more tragedies to learn and share.   

Historic overlay image of Emogene Marshall at Edwin Niver's grave

By examining each of these 12,920 deaths individually, we can begin to understand the tragedy of the Civil War.  

*Content posted was created on personal time and does not necessarily reflect official views of the National Park Service.

Flowers for Jennie

"Oh, that's Jennie's dad's grave. I put flowers there for Jennie."

The 8-year-old and I took a detour from our projected route to walk over to the decorated grave. A few pale flowers leaned over the vase. The bright-eyed, curly-headed child knelt down to reposition the flowers. She explained to me the story about Jennie writing a letter a long time ago, requesting "some little girl" place flowers on her papa's grave. This child piped in "I am probably the first little girl to do so." We then continued down the long row of graves. She was likely right.

I spent Memorial Day week at Andersonville National Historic Site, volunteering alongside the interpretive staff with visitor services. On my last morning before I rolled out of Georgia, I helped with the removal of the flags that had been placed throughout the national cemetery. Something around 20,000 flags were not going roll up and store themselves. One ranger made a comment about the idea of remembrance: it is easier to start and often unfinished business. He referred to the idea that hundreds help set up the flags on Saturday and only a couple dozen return to remove the flags on Tuesday morning. The quietness of the Tuesday allowed for a calmer process. It proved a solemn activity, stripping the cemetery of the flickering red, white, and blue. In the same way Saturday's placement of the flags served as an active form of remembering, removing them seemed a silent way of putting that act to rest. The quiet and solitude also allowed for more time to reflect upon each grave. The placement activities on Saturday happen so fast and involve so many people that there is little time for reflection. I knew of some stories and thought of those buried as I helped pull flags (like a veteran of Iraq buried who wasn't more than three months older than me). I thought about the reason the cemetery had been established and the crowded rows of thousands of Civil War soldiers. I thought about those who have visited over the last fifteen decades or so.

It was a ranger's daughter, joining volunteers for the flag removal, who brought one of the names engraved on a headstone to life. Bouncing curls pulled back in a pony tail, mismatched baby and adult teeth, and bright eyes characterized what an average 8-year-old might look like. This child, however, was not your average 8-year-old. Obviously raised by a historian (or a park ranger who loves history), she could drop some serious knowledge about the site. I had heard this particular story about Jennie (it is also posted on the park's website), but the modern-day's child personal connection to the story reminded me of the humanity contained within each engraved piece of limestone. She reminded me of those left behind to grieve their loved ones. She reminded me of how youth could be impacted by war (and still in some ways be shielded by it). In 1864, Jennie was 8-years-old, just like this ranger's daughter. Little did this a 12-year-old girl from Lafayette, Indiana realize when she wrote that letter, requesting "some little girl" be kind enough to place flowers on her papa's grave realize how it would impact individuals nearly 150 years later. Memorializing the death of her father was in a simple act of placing flowers on his grave, an act Jennie would not be able to do. What would Jennie think if she knew her minor request was honored nearly a century and a half later?

**Opinions are my own and do not necessarily reflect those of the National Park Service.

Poison Ivy CAN, in fact, be a Good Thing

On my drive home yesterday, I found the evening weather cooperative enough that I drove the last hour and half with my windows rolled down. The sun was painting its farewell colors in the sky as it set and the temperature hovered around 80 degrees. The warmth heightened the pungent smells of bush honeysuckle, even along an interstate at 75 miles per hour. Thanks to a stint on an exotic invasives removal crew, I no longer see (or smell) the bush honeysuckle as exclusively "lovely." It grows throughout middle Tennessee, especially along roadways. However, it does not belong here.

Trail running through lush green provides
much food for thought

Thinking of the abundance of bush honeysuckle yesterday reminded me of some thoughts I had on a trail run a few weeks ago. Again, I encountered a number of exotic, invasive plants, but I also encountered a number native plants that would be considered a nuisance for other reasons. Plants like poison ivy belong in this ecosystem, but are often removed because of the allergic reactions they cause to humans.

Because of those months working on a removal crew, my eyes have been trained to spot the non-native plants (well, and those native plants that cause massive rashes... a lesson learned with a heavy dose of calamine lotion). I learned through my colleagues and research about the negative impacts of exotic, invasive plants. I went on to lead a number of education programs to school groups about the importance of biodiversity.




Now, back to my "running thoughts..."

At first glance, it is a lot of green. A more extensive
examination might reveal a heathy ecosystem (or not).

I mentally wandered back to a time in my life when I went and did a series of photographs along trails of any "pretty things" I saw. That was well before I worked as a park ranger or on that removal crew. I was a historian and spent more time at the library than anywhere. My plant identification skills rested somewhere between "that one is green" and "I think it might need water." So as I passed through the Tennessee woods, I wondered about others' interactions with the space. What do they see? Green? Lush? Pretty? Can they identify plants? What percentage would know of the exotic plants (and who will be walking away with new rashes?)?


Since my brain is wired the way it is, I always appear to come back to the idea of interpretation and the public. And since my background is heavily in history, I wondered about those same ideas with the overlay of history. Think of those exotic plants as myth or legend or a poor movie presentation of a historical event. Maybe they are pretty. Maybe they smell good. But in reality, those myths or legends interfere with a more accurate understanding of the past. And how about the irritating native plants, like poison ivy? It isn't "bad." But it surely is uncomfortable. I don't care what era of history you study, you are aware of uncomfortable parts that our gut reaction is to remove or just avoid.

An irritating native plant, poison ivy

BUT. In a healthy ecosystem, the native plants interact with each other (and other forms of wildlife) with no interference of the exotic plants. Those plants are allowed to thrive (the exotic plants, meanwhile, thrive in the regions where they are native... everything has its own place). How does an ecosystem get to its healthiest state? Humans have been the largest contribution to the spread of exotic, invasive plants and now have to be a part of the solution (no, it isn't an easy solution). Some areas (parks or public lands) have people who manage that ecosystem to the best of their ability, removing the exotic while planting natives as best they can. Education also plays a huge role. Ecologists are trained to understand how plants interact and work to achieve healthier ecosystems.

I will again continue that thought into history and interpretation, how do interpreters (or historians... or both) encourage a better understanding of history? On case-by-case basis, interpreters interact with visitors and can maybe instill some thoughts to encourage alternate thinking (remove a myth, for example, or inspire a new idea). But how can a broader historical understanding be encouraged? Is there a mass-approach method to encourage these types of thought?

I know this is a question that has been deliberated by many for a long time.

Hope on a Deadly Landscape

Last week, I moseyed on down to Americus, Georgia (because, let’s face it, there is no other travel speed than “mosey” when in south Georgia) to help a friend move into her new place. Ok, fellow park nerds: what (two) National Park Service sites are within 20 miles of Americus, Georgia?

Ding Ding Ding Ding!

That’s correct. If you guessed “Andersonville National Historic Site” and “Jimmy Carter National Historic Site” you get two gold stars. Since I know all the interpretive staff down at Andersonville, I spent some time there before my departure.

I believe I should preface what I believe will be many of my future posts about Andersonville with “wow, what a striking place” and “I have a new research interest.” The stories on the landscape are complex and, unfortunately, have been mostly neglected over the past century. I have visited the site before, but that was about six years ago (and the interpretive staff was different and I was visiting with family and was there for maybe half a day). This visit proved enlightening and fascinating. The staff is doing an excellent job researching, interpreting, and providing means for visitors to connect to the place in ways that haven’t been provided there before (especially considering the limitations of a small staff and limited budget). As I digest some of the content there (and content I’ll be working with in the future), sharing what I learn here in the future, I wanted to share one  interpretive effort on site at Andersonville that almost caught me off my interpretive guard.

Behind the visitor center and National Prisoner of War Museum sprawls the landscape where the prison physically existed. That patch of land the staff refers to as “the deadliest ground on American soil” hosted a Civil War prisoner of war camp, probably the most infamous of all the “portals to hell.” That patch of land witnessed atrocities that would make the most stalwart of individuals squeamish. That patch of land saw more deaths than the battles of Gettysburg and Antietam combined. In one month alone, more perished here than in any other one battle during the American Civil War.

When visitors walk from the visitor center towards the prison site, they pass a reconstructed wall and some tents. These pieces serve as visual props, indicating a prison site. The tents, torn and weather-worn, stand forlorn and isolated. The staff use this site as the “stage” for some of their living history events and remarked that often visitors express empathy and sadness with costumed interpreters there (not always the sentiments park rangers in uniform receive at the museum). It is hard not feel sad or heart-broken just standing at that place.

But then there are these.

Tiny shoots of corn peak out of the red dirt, stretching toward the sun.

I commented “oh, how sad!” to the park ranger who showed them to me.

“Ah, ha!” he said. “Yes, sad is one way to look at it, especially when one considers where the prisoners would have found the corn” (either in their food supplies or possibly in the, hmmm, areas where food had already been digested once). “But,” he continued, “consider the idea of the prisoners planting corn."

Take a minute. Consider it.

He continued, "The prisoners thought of the future- these prisoners looked to the future and told themselves they would survive. They looked toward that day when they would harvest this corn, holding onto hope.”

That is what I call interpretation. He made a simple connection of a thing (a living, growing thing) to an idea in a way that visitors could make a connection. Hope! Here! Even amongst the some of the worst of human experiences existed hope. Woven throughout the inhumane narratives of the Andersonville story (and the general “prisoner of war experience”) shine glimmers of humanity. Numbers of dead, statistics of wounded, or facts about prisoners of war don't stand out in my mind nearly as well as those pieces of green growth contrasted against the dirt. 

*Special thanks to the staff for talking to me about the many aspects of this place and to Ranger Eric for sharing this particular feature at the park. 

**These are writings of my own and do not officially represent that of the National Park Service. 

***I also feel that those corn stalks can be considered "living history." And they don't need to dress up, either.

Thinking Beyond Tilden

I think sometimes there are those who think the interpreter's job is easy. "Oh, you just tell stories and point visitors towards the directions of the bathrooms, right?" Uh, no.

I also think sometimes there are those who have no comprehension of everything that goes into "interpretation" or "interpretive programming" or "interpretive media." Research, reading, planning, synthesis, synopsis, design, understanding, audience awareness, public relations, perception, even anticipation and anxiety. Those complexities grow exponentially when various interpreters understand the content or presentation differently, especially at historic sites. "Do it this way" or "No, this is better." We have opinions on the "best" way to do what we do, right? Heck, my ramblings on this blog are just my opinions of history and interpretation based on my limited experience in the field and understandings of scholarship in action.

Last week, I followed The Future of the Civil War History: Looking Beyond the 150th conference long distance. And by "long distance" I mean "on Twitter." I used #cwfuture to follow along the best I could. Many ideas struck me and provided food for thought, but this minor conversation stayed with me:

@amwhisnant What is the particular concern with #tilden?
— Clayton J. Hanson (@claytonhanson) March 15, 2013

@claytonhanson @cwbarr I find Tilden simplistic, romantic, patriotic, not necess suited 2 difficult topix. Needs critique.#cwfuture
— Anne Whisnant (@amwhisnant) March 15, 2013

@cwbarr @claytonhanson But I am not sure that his "why" is sufficiently ctritical. #cwfuture
— Anne Whisnant (@amwhisnant) March 15, 2013

If you aren't familiar, Freeman Tilden is kind of like the "Godfather" of interpretation, especially in the National Park Service. I would bet his "Interpreting Our Heritage" is assigned reading for easily 85% new front-line interpreters and seasonal interpreters (and I would bet that number is low). It's just how we do. In this selection of tweets (there are more in the conversation, I just highlighted some), Tilden's work gets called into question and some front-line interpreters engage.




I have been thinking a lot about "why we do what we do" recently. Since I now work for myself, I wonder about what it is I "do." And why I do what I do. I still consider myself an interpreter, though I work for a private industry rather than the federal government. I still want to promote historical awareness and even conservation/preservation, but I don't work at one specific site anymore. I operate with many of Tilden's ideas and then some.

I would love to hear back from those who work in history, education, interpretation, or a combination of those things. Why do you do what you do? What principles serve as your foundation? Ultimately, what do you want your visitors, guests, students, listeners, etc., to walk away knowing, understanding, thinking, or doing?


[Cue responses via "Comments" below and thanks in advance for what you have to say]

Working the Emancipation Proclamation

Ok, ok. So after my three-posts-in-one week in early January, I didn't post for a whole month. I have no excuses for my absence, just reasons why.

I would like to make a comment regarding working major events. Especially since the sesquicentennial is over the course of several years, there have been (and will be) many "signature events" throughout the country. Historic sites, parks, battlefields, and museums have used living history events, lectures, exhibits, and more to commemorate the American Civil War. The fiftieth anniversaries of many events that happened during the Civil Rights Movement have been occurring AND that whole bicentennial anniversary of the War of 1812 has also been happening on the American landscape, too. Lots of anniversaries means lots of events, right!? You betcha.

Last week I worked a temporary position at the Tennessee State Museum for its opening of the "Discovering the Civil War" exhibit. I was specifically hired to help with crowd control while the Emancipation Proclamation was on display. The museum expected between 22,000 and 25,000 visitors over the course of the week. Over 30,000 came through.

Around 8,000 students came through from schools across
Tennessee to see the Emancipation Proclamation.

While working there, I encountered thousands of people. All week I thought of things I wanted to write about on this blog, from visitors' connections to the significance of the document being in Nashville (where, in fact, it legally made no difference). But after working that many days in a row, talking to that many people, and ending the week in a fog of a head cold, I decided the most I can say about it: the event is a blur. The week was long and it seemed to go by fast and I remember a few highlights, but honestly, the memory is a blur.

I think that is partly why I still have not posted my thoughts about the sesquicentennial events at Stones River National Battlefield. They are still bouncing around my head, but that freezing week went by crazy fast and before we knew it, it was over. We can provide visitation numbers as a measurement of success. We can share anecdotes about visitors' reactions. But we will not fully know the reaches of these events for a long time. I think assessment is a valuable tool as these commemorations are still on-going, but maybe the length of time is starting to become a blur, too? The 50th, or 150th, or 200th anniversaries will pass and what will we remember about them? More importantly, what will the public remember about them?



P.S. And yes, I got to see the Emancipation Proclamation AND the 13th Amendment. I suppose I can write about my personal reflections upon seeing the documents. That part is certainly not a blur.

P.P.S. I want to give credit where credit is due: the public programming staff at the Tennessee State Museum did a fantastic job. The staff commented a few times that maybe they over-planned since there were no major hitches during the week. They planned and implemented their plans exceedingly well, making for a positive experience for the vast majority of the visiting public. I know they must be exhausted, but deserve a huge pat on the back.

history rockstars

How exciting is this?

Okay, okay. From a glance, maybe not very. It's just a truck! Parked on the street! In downtown Nashville!

But.

Do you know what is in that truck? That's the exciting part. I happened to pass the truck last weekend with a friend who works at the museum and he gave me the "scoop" on the contents of the truck.  It is one of three trucks filled with the National Archives exhibit "Discovering the Civil War" set to open at the Tennessee State Museum. The exhibit utilizes documents managed by the National Archives to tell the fuller story of the Civil War. I have heard good things about the exhibit from many people and look forward to its exhibition in Nashville.

National Archives

The rockstar of the exhibition, however, will only be on display for a few days. The original Emancipation Proclamation will make its appearance over a six-day period at the museum. THE ORIGINAL EMANCIPATION PROCLAMATION. WILL MAKE ITS APPEARANCE. OVER A SIX-DAY PERIOD. IN NASHVILLE.

Deep breaths. I need lots of deep breaths.

A digital version is available through the National Archives' website. As a matter of fact, I have accessed the online version countless times. While working at Stones River National Battlefield, we used the document in our education programs (as the victory of the battle gave President Lincoln weight to his proclamation and the document is part of content standards for fifth graders). 


My excitement over seeing the original by no means takes away from my enthusiasm over the fact that the digital version is available to everybody thanks to the great interwebz. But to see the document with mine own eyes thrills me to no end. After I recover from swooning over seeing the original 13th amendment, I will have a chance to swoon over seeing the Emancipation Proclamation.

I am ecstatic that the exhibit is traveling the nation and hope hope hope people are going to swarm (if not swoon) to see these special documents. The Tennessee State Museum anticipates enough of a crowd for the Emancipation Proclamation that patrons have to get advance tickets with allotted 15-minute viewing intervals (although, the museum is free to attend). I have a feeling, though, the percentage of local population will not appreciate the magnanimity of the visiting document(s), completely unaware of the history rockstar that will soon grace Music City's presence.

And I wonder how we change that?